


all the things i deserve

by damnromulans (beastofaburden)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Schmoop, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastofaburden/pseuds/damnromulans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, as it turns out, clothes sharing <i>might</i> be a bit of a thing between them.<br/>(contains spoilers for STID)</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the things i deserve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gyzym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gyzym/gifts).



> This goes out to gyzym on her birthday in the wake of a soul crushing conversation we had about this trope yesterday. HAVE A GOOD ONE, BB <3 (also yes the title is totally stolen from a Shakira song, I accept your scorn).

Bones is a nice guy.

Put it down to Southern breeding, the call of of the healer, whatever – the man is a pillar of human decency that’d put most of the top brass of the Federation to shame. The thing is, he’d really prefer that people didn’t know it, and generally they don’t. McCoy’s firm outer shell of discontent and vitriol is a thing of legend across _at least_ three solar systems, and they’re not even out of the Academy yet.

Jim gets that.

Jim is also very, _very_ drunk.

“Booooones.” 

His lips curve into a smile as he drags out the ‘o.’ “Dude, that is such a fun name to say. A+ nicknaming skills, self.”

Bones grips at his elbow just the tiniest bit harder and tugs him along the footpath. They’re walking back to the dorm from Finnegan’s, Jim knows that much, even if he can’t really remember leaving the bar. Not that he really wants to, if the faint tang of blood in his mouth and the spatter of it on his t-shirt is anything to go by.

“It would’ve been just too damn good if someone’d hit you hard enough to shut you up, huh?” Bones growls, jaw set tight and lips turned further downwards than normal. 

“You _totally_ don’t want me to shut up though. You, like, treasure every word that falls from my lips. You just wanna write them all down and read them beneath the covers at night.”

“Lord give me strength, how is it even possible that being knocked on your ass has _inflated_ your ego?”

Jim scoffs at that, and for the first time in the evening it occurs to him to shrug away from Bones, who feels just as comfortable manhandling him as the idiots at the bar did, but can throw barbs that dig beneath his skin. Bones doesn’t let him go, though, fingers pushing little divots into his skin.

“Don’t worry about my ego, Bones. Left it in that simulation room. You saw.”

Their quickstep slows to a stroll. Jim feels his balance start to go at the change of pace, momentum no longer forcing him forward, but Bones’ hands stay firm at his side when he stumbles over his toes. Jim’s just waiting for it, now – the _you tried, kid_ , the pity. Because Bones _is_ a nice guy, the kind of guy who’d volunteer to go to the bar with his best friend knowing full well how the night would probably end, the kind who’d take a whole day off from clinic duty to sit at Jim’s doomed helm for six hours. 

But it never comes. What he gets instead is a brief rub against the inside of his elbow, across his bicep, and a discerning humph. 

“You’re freezing. Thought you had enough booze in you to melt a small glacier.”

“M’fine.” Before he can even finish mumbling the word, though, Bones is shrugging off his jacket, hands somehow managing to never break contact with Jim, even as he slides it over his shoulders and tucks it around his neck. Then, they’re back to his elbow, leading him down the road once more.

Jim’s head still refuses to focus on any one point, but he manages to throw a sideways look at Bones whilst they go. 

“Best. Prom date. Ever.”

“Shut the hell up, ingrate. Last thing you need before the rest of your exams is a goddamn head cold. Got plenty of idiots running themselves ragged this time of year, I don’t need you on my examination table as well.”

He doesn’t really know what to say to that – he thinks he might’ve just been insulted or encouraged, but he doesn’t even try to sort out which in his current state. Instead, he tugs absently at the hem of the jacket, already feeling more like himself as the chill dissipates. It’s a good jacket, made better still with the phantom of Bones’ body heat in the sleeves and against his neck. It’s comforting against his skin, as he starts to warm from the inside out.

They’re coming up to the corner leading into the Academy – he’s struck, quickly, by thought of pulling Bones to a stop, asking him if there’s somewhere else they can go first, because he’s not ready to go back yet. 

But Bones just walks on, takes Jim with him, uncompromising and focused and always so painfully fucking _kind_ alongside all his piss and bile that it makes Jim’s breath catch, surrounded by his warmth and tucked alongside him. He’s not sure what to do with everything that’s being handed to him, that’s _been_ handed to him in the shape of this man, given so unconditionally. So he does what he can – he follows, leans into Bones just the tiniest bit more, and they’ll both blame it on the booze and the fatigue tomorrow morning.

Bones tosses the jacket a few months later. Jim tries to pretend he’s not sad about it.  
_

Jim’s favourite thing about his clothes, he has decided, is when Bones wears them. If you want to get technical, the height of his clothes’ likability is precisely this moment – when the promise of de-clothing hangs heavy in the air, with Bones’ stomach tensed, when he’s gripping at the kitchen table like it’s the only thing holding him up, and Jim’s boxers hanging haphazard around his hips.

Jim grins against the skin beside Bones’ navel, casts his eyes upwards when he presses kisses down towards the protrusion of his hip. Bones groans when he bites down on the thin skin covering bone, sucks at it until the mark is good and wet and purple, and then leaves a second hickey for good measure. All the while he keeps his hands trailing lightly up and down Bones’ thighs, inching ever higher but never quite enough. 

“You fucking little _tease_.” 

He laughs at that, throaty but light, as he ghosts his lips across Bones’ skin to the other hip, sets about leaving his mark here after he says “I’m not the one who insisted on making lunch half-naked, Bones.”

Before Bones can reply, Jim grasps at his length, straining against the grey boxers, _his_ grey, Starfleet-issue boxers, and hell if that’s not an image that’s going to stay with Jim for a while. Bones’ legs near jolt off the ground at the feel of Jim’s fist wrapped around his cock, any choice words dissolving into a long, low moan. 

Jim revels in timing just-the-right-side-of-rough tugs with little his little nips at Bones’ skin. He revels in _this_ , the thrum of blood beneath his skin and the sun shining through the open window and the freedom to do have and taste and _fuck_ , Bones is wearing his boxers and wearing his marks and there’s not much else he wants in the world, right now.

Well, there is one thing. He pulls away (the little whimper that escapes Bones when he does is something he wants to fucking tattoo across his heart) and pulls down the ratty boxers, and yeah, he really loves it when Bones wears his clothes, but he’d happily burn the lot of them if it means he gets to see Bones like this, flushed and naked and wanting.

“New rule, Bones,” he murmurs, breathing over heated skin. “You don’t get to wear my clothes unless you want me to fuck you until you can’t remember your own name. Deal?”

Bones’ hips jerk just the tiniest bit, and Jim is so fucking enamored by this guy, still trying to center himself and hold back when Jim’s got him pinned in nearly every way. Still, it’s Bones, so he manages to bite out an answer laced in scorn.

“Not exactly discouraging me, kid.”

The smile leaps back onto Jim’s face, and he casts one more look up the length of Bones’ body before he answers.

“I’m not trying to.”

They both kind of give up talking once Jim gets to work.

-

When you’re the captain of a starship, “off-shift” becomes a very loose term. Whilst Starfleet protocols mandate at least eight hours of allocated downtime for crewmembers each day, when you’ve got the Admiralty breathing down your neck for mission reports and requisition applications to approve and cultural dossiers to memorize… well, you get the picture.

Most people understand the concessions that command requires. They understand the dark circles, the extra cups of coffee. However, Bones has never really been ‘most people’ and Jim knows that he was an idiot to expect that to change once he put on the gold shirt.

He doesn’t look away from the PADD as the bathroom door slides open, very pointedly keeps his eyes on the readouts from the last warp core efficiency test. Bones leans against the desk, looking down at Jim, and he’s still not looking but he can picture the exact angle of Bones’ eyebrow and his crossed arms, feels the scrutiny keenly.

“You know, I can order you to stop working.” Bones’ voice is firm with concern, but there’s no malice in it.

Jim flicks his fingers across a few checkboxes, tries to keep his reply absent. “On what grounds, Dr. McCoy?”

“On the grounds that, statistically, command officers on a starship are more likely to succumb to exhaustion-linked illness than any other sector in the goddamned fleet.”

“Bones, just give me five more minutes-”

“Which, of course, means another hour.”

“It does not, I just have to get this done.”

“Jim.” Bones cards a hand through Jim’s hair, rests at the nape of his neck. It’s soothing and steady and not nearly enough to chase away the headache throbbing behind his eyes – he pulls his glasses off as Bones traces tiny circles against the knobs of his spine, pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’ve been looking for that shirt everywhere.” Bones says, softly. Jim’s smile is sheepish, even if Bones probably can’t see it beneath his hand. There’s no point in denying it. Not when he’s got Ole Miss splayed all across his chest.

“Yeah. Sorry. It’s comfy.”

“’S alright, kid.” He pushes off the desk, leans down to press a kiss into Jim’s hair. “I know you won’t be able to sleep anyway unless you get the last of this done, so I’ll give you your five minutes. But the rest can wait until tomorrow.”

Jim nods, slides his glasses back into place. He could argue, probably, but it’s been one hell of a week, and he knows that Bones would probably be able to shoot all of his arguments to shit in minutes. ‘I’m the Captain, you’re not’ never tends to get him far. Besides, it’s easier to turn back to the reports, now, with the smell of Bones' soap lingering behind, with the thought of him waiting in Jim’s bed. 

Five minutes seems like plenty, now.

-

It’s not easy to make Bones look stupid. Given that the dude can rock Starfleet’s most ridiculous uniforms with ease, and that he’s built like brick wall, Jim is actually pretty close to congratulating himself on a feat he assumed was impossible.

Because, right now? Bones is juggling a tray of coffee and a bag full of breakfast as he walks back towards the house. The shirt stretched across his shoulders is looking like it’s about to lose its sleeves, and the jeans on his hips seem like they’re about three steps from sliding down to his thighs. 

Jim can’t help but laugh as he watches Bones through the kitchen window, the cloudless Georgian morning casting light over the tones of wood and stone around the room. Bones hears it, of course. Jim expects the special scowl of the pre-breakfast Bones, no less potent across the space of the porch. What he gets instead, though – a half-smile and soft eyes and a light shrug, like _What are you gonna do?_ \- makes his breath catch.

Because Bones likes to pretend that Jim’s brief sojourn in the afterlife hasn’t changed things too much, a pretense that Jim is all too happy to play along with. But there are moments like this which proves them both so fucking wrong, when his heart swells and his stomach lurches with the intensity of feeling, because he’s so _glad_ that he’s not missing this and he knows, he just does, that Bones feels exactly the same way. He’s wrapped up in Jim’s clothes like a damn fool, but that’s okay. Jim’s willing to make all kinds of excuses for this fool in love.

Of course, the half-smile twists, and “Get your ass down here and help me out, I’m a doctor, not a delivery boy!” floats into the kitchen. Jim just shakes his head and makes for the front door, and starts his day filled with thoughts about tugging those jeans up and pulling at that shirt and kissing the taste of coffee away from Bones’ mouth.


End file.
